Smoke (27 page)

“Right. And before they ever knew what hit them, Fleisher pulled out his gun and fired at Joe. The bullet flew straight past Solly's right ear so that he could practically hear the end coming. At the same time Milberg and Keywell fired at Sutker and Paul. Within seconds the apartment was all sound, spark and fury, and Paul's back was full of holes. He was slumped face down on the hardwood floor in a widening pool of his own blood. Lebovitz was right behind him, trying hard to reach the bedroom for cover when he was hit. The stub of his cigar was stuck between his teeth. Izzy Sutker died on the floor in the bedroom with his boots touching a pretty floral-print area rug and his bullet-riddled forehead tucked under the bed.”

“What about Solly Levine? Was he shot too?”

“No, but he expected to be. Stood there waiting on his execution while the Purples consulted briefly and then rushed him out the door, leaving only God and an apartment building full of confused and terrified tenants to babysit his three dead partners. The Purples and Solly clambered down the staircase and out to the getaway car. They screeched away, guns still smoking in Keywell and Milberg's pockets. After a few blocks Ray skidded over curbside and dumped Solly out. ‘Remember who your
real
friends are,' he said. ‘We'll be in touch.' Solly pulled himself together and ran back to the book.

“He fretted for hours after, nearly wet himself sitting in the window watching for Purples or the police. Bernstein never did come for him. It was part of Ray's plan all along to frame Solly. To Raymond Bernstein's way of thinking it was best to have a disposable man available in case an alibi was needed. But he didn't get the chance to use Solly because the police moved fast on the Collingwood shootings and Solly was eventually linked to the killing spree. Next thing he knew he was being called to testify against the Purple Gang.”

“You can't rat out a mobster!”

“No you can't. But then the city was run by real criminals. Not the kind you two come across at the picture show, with their guns all exposed and their hats always tilted to one side as if they've got something they want everyone to know they're hiding.” Doc John adjusts Buster's fedora so that it sits straight on his head. “No, not like that. Some gangs were illegal and others were on the up and up. The Detroit mobs might not have been as well known, say, as Capone's Chicago bunch or the New York crew, but they were clever, kept us all on our toes. And I'm sorry to say but the local police weren't much better. After the massacre the police brought Solly in for questioning and a good shellacking. They were willing to beat a confession out of him if it meant getting names.” Jelly Bean wraps her arms around her body like a comfort blanket.

“He confessed?”

“Yeah. Shame about that. Confessions are like eating sweets dipped in double sugar, if you ask me. They never do any good. Besides, sometimes there's nothing a confession can do that a good story can't accomplish just as well. So, even though no amount of talking was going to improve Solly's situation, he squawked, told the police some cockamamie tale about the trio being kidnapped on their way to a secret meeting. Swore he hadn't come across anyone at the crime scene. Police ruled out the kidnapping line fast though—Solly wasn't a very good storyteller.”

“Not like you,” says Jelly Bean.

“Well.” The doctor is flattered. He smiles at the girl. “Next thing you know the police ordered all Purples and affiliates rounded up. In less than forty-eight hours tips had come in from various parts.”

“Rival gangs,” spits Buster. “Taking advantage of the situation.”

“Nasty business, all right. But that's how it was.”

“Did they catch them?” Jelly Bean wants to know. “I hope they did.”

“Sure, the police learned of Ray's hideout from an anonymous caller. Surrounded the place. The gang was quiet when they were brought into headquarters. Ray Bernstein's matinee idol grin had left him altogether. He looked pretty rattled on that day.”

“You were there?” asks Buster. “What did he do?”

“It was all over the newspapers. Within two days the others were captured. There was a trial of course, and you know what? Bernstein always denied his part, up until the very end. No surprise there. But the
real
mystery was Solly Levine.”

The doctor adjusts his vest and a piece of gauze pokes out the bottom end of his shirt. He appears smaller in the rear-view mirror, his face hard, and it occurs to Buster that he usually keeps his shirt buttoned to the top, even in warm weather like today, and yet his collar is loose, his shirtwaist untucked. He looks dishevelled. There
are
mysteries close at hand, Buster tells himself. Puzzles to be solved. At the least, a secret or two. “What do you mean?”

“First he was whisked off across the border by police, his name changed to protect his identity. Then from America he was placed on a boat to France for protection, but when he docked officials wouldn't accept him into the country. They sent him back, where he tried to snag a passport to Ireland. That didn't pan out either.”

Buster's throat constricts, his mouth goes dry. An indefinable place inside him aches on Solly's behalf, wrings and twists with the lonely idea of a throwaway.

“So what did he do if no one wanted him?”

“He disappeared.”

Buster swerves, slams his foot on the brake pedal and barely avoids a fox on the road. When he regains control of the car Doc John has fastened his vest and jacket.

“Better watch the road son.” The old man pats his rib cage. “I've already been in one accident, you know.”

I
N TILLSONBURG,
Buster parks in front of the Royal Hotel. Doc John has errands of his own to attend and heads off down the street. Girls and women aren't allowed in beverage rooms so Buster alone carts the posters and his fishing bag with the tape into the hotel. Patrons are startled by his appearance and stare at his face as though a creature from a Hollywood B-movie is staggering around in their midst. One fellow's mouth hangs agape. Buster faces him directly and doesn't blink as he pulls the tape from his bag, unwinds a strip, cuts it with his teeth and sticks a poster up over the counter. Might as well give him a good long look, he thinks. He holds his breath to avoid inhaling cigarette and pipe smoke and returns to Jelly Bean. Together they walk down the street and around the corner into the library where they ask if there might be someone else who'd be willing to hang a poster on the premises. Next, they are directed to Albert Lum's restaurant.

The place is packed with afternoon patrons and clanging with the noise of plates and bowls and silverware. Albert stands behind the counter with his wife. A local fellow pulls a deck of cards from his breast pocket and another offers around a box of his best cigars. Strangers either ignore Buster altogether or make no effort to shave down their pity or curiosity. Once the doleful staring is over, as in Smoke, they simply carry on, unaffected. Several who know Tom McFiddie from auction or from his recent profile over the tobacco marketing board make an effort to be kind, reminding Buster to say hello to his father. Buster senses their discomfort by their overcompensation, by the way they speak in short, choppy sentences—deliberate, controlled—and face him head-on with their arms pressed tightly against their bodies like statues standing at attention. He's pretty sure he hears whispering. He and Jelly Bean hurry to the pool hall, and then the beauty parlour, where Buster receives the same reception.

Finally, they drop the remaining posters in the trunk of the car and wait for Doc John on the steps of the hotel where the Honeymooners, playing on the radio, carry outside. Buster points across the street to the dairy bar.

“That's the first place the bandit hit. I wonder if he's watching us now.”

“Very funny, Buster. Don't tease.”

Buster laughs. “Don't you want to know who it is?”

Jelly Bean shrugs, and then a moment later taps her feet, one and the other.

“Thanks for driving.”

“Won't take us long to get to Simcoe, then home.”

“Have you ever been to Her Majesty's Royal Chapel? It's the oldest Protestant church in Ontario. Maybe all of Canada. I'm not sure, I'll have to ask my dad next time we visit my grandparents. But it's where the Mohawk chief was buried.”

“Cool.” Buster pulls an orange from his fishing bag and peels it with his thumb and then with his teeth. He spits the rind out onto the ground. “That's how Brantford got its name, right? After Joseph Brant?”

“Yeah, how do you know?”

He speaks with a full mouth. “Everybody knows that.”

Jelly Bean doesn't like his tone. It holds the same casual disdain that her mother's does whenever her grandparents are mentioned or when her father refers to being Mohawk. It's as if Buster is watching a Western movie at the Strand and commenting on a brightly coloured headdress or coveting a bow and arrow set, admiring what isn't his from a safe distance and yet feeling superior at the same time. “Not everybody. Indians know all about tobacco though,” she says, as Buster passes her a pulpy section of fruit. “My dad says they grew it first.”

Buster nods. His father has told him that, long before names like McFiddie or Rombout, tobacco was grown and traded and smoked by Indians.

When he isn't looking Jelly Bean examines his face at close range and sees that each patch of scarred tissue is a slight hue of red or pink or yellow. It appears that he changes with the seasons, like the fields or the leaves on the trees. Criss-crosses and overlapping flesh make for interesting patterns and while he chews the patterns come alive. “Wonder what Doc John's doing?” She taps her fingers on the sidewalk. “Hey, when we're done here I could come over to your place.”

Buster sees that her ankles are exposed where the hem of her pedal pushers fits snugly against the shape of her calves. She has fine bones like a bird and her skin is tanned and smooth. He could sit here looking at her all day and all night. She'll have his vote for Miss Tobacco Queen if she enters the competition. But he can't go on accepting her kindness. He's been learning things about himself from spending time with her, not that he can put these things into words. He's been learning that after fire there is more than physical pain, there is the wrenching pain of disentitlement. Wanting what you can't ultimately have. A longing that continues despite all else. It's worse than never having wanted in the first place.

“Naw, I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“You'd get bored.”

She takes a deep, mournful breath. “I'm kinda bored now Buster.” “Oh.” Her comment makes him feel a responsibility he hasn't known in a long while. He scans the street for Doc John. “How about a story then?” It's the first thing that comes to mind. She huddles closer, hugging her knees, and he feels the warmth of her body against his own. “Let me see.” He relaxes and slips into his other world, the one in which he is powerful and strong. The one where anything is possible. He will make something up and she won't know the difference. “Uh … did you ever hear how my grandfather made himself famous during the Prohibition?”

“Nope.” Jelly Bean shakes her head.

“Good. Okay. Well listen. His name was Milton McFiddie, but they called him Mick, and he … he packed up and drove a rusty jalopy south to Windsor in the dead of winter. Pushed it onto the frozen river early in the morning. Crossed like that to bootleg.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. Lots of fellas did. Ask Doc John. They were desperate for a break. They did it and I'm telling you that my grandfather was one of the best.” Buster tries to sound confident so she'll believe him. “His car had false floorboards and a second gas tank to hide the hooch, and he inched it across the river with all four doors open in case they had to jump out fast. Didn't do him much good though. He lost the jalopy and the other two men in it—the load being heavy. It cracked the ice and the rear went under. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle …” Buster gestures downward with his hands.

“Oh no.”

“But it's okay, it's okay.
He
bobbed to the surface and tried to pull himself onto the ice. Each time the ice gave way and he splashed back under. Then when he was sure he was a goner, he saved himself by stepping on the hood of the car. Later, he told folks that he hadn't wanted to. That it was like stepping on the heads of the others and pushing them down.”

“How dreadful. That's a dreadful thing to do.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes you have to take advantage of a bad situation.”

Jelly Bean chews a fingernail. “I guess so. Then what?”

“He crawled onto his knees back to shore, shivering and half alive.”

“Wow.
” She can visualize the whole thing. “So you're
related
to a criminal?”

“Um, sure, you could say.” Buster is inside the story now and sees how easily it has slid away from him. He's thrilled to have captured her attention but feels guilty; he'd never even met his grandfather. “And I suppose it could've just as easily been me crawling on the river that morning. Or me hollering and scrambling with
my
face pressed up against the windows for air.”

Jelly Bean can't dodge this final graphic image. She squeezes up her own features.

“What a terrible way to die.”

Buster shrugs. “There's probably worse.”

She runs her tongue back and forth along her top row of teeth, expectantly.

“Have
you
broken any laws?”

“Me?”

“You can tell me,” she prods. “I'm not saying that you have but
if
you have I promise I won't breathe a word. Cross my heart.” She demonstrates with her fingers. Furtively he glances at her full chest, where she's drawn an invisible X. Before he has a chance to respond, Doc John makes his way around the corner carrying a small box of clarinet reeds.